WW3: Cherokee vs German
by Da ChaMp
Summary: A Cherokee who owns a bakery gets into a never ending struggle with his German friend over the German's foreign Danish.


**The content in this story is by no means meant to be racist or insulting. This story is purely fictional, and if there are any coincidences by relation or something of the sort, it was not originally intended to do so.**

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><p><span>Based off of notes passed in 10<span>th grade biology class written by: Donisia K Sikes, Laura Westfall, and Donald "Caleb" Maloy

Written and Edited by: Donald "Caleb" Maloy

"I want a fuckin' answer, damn it!" yelled a drunk German. He had been drinking arguing with a Cherokee, as well as drinking, all morning.

"Go to hell and find your fuckin' answer, asshole!" responded the Cherokee.

"Maybe I'll send you to hell, so you can get my answer. Where the hell is my damn Danish?"

"Danish? I thought this was Turkish Delight." It was the mail nazi.

The mail nazi is kind of like that retarded soup nazi from that gay-ass show; except this guy did mail, not soup. He was like the Grinch in w way: he gave people the wrong mail. Or at least he used to. See, a couple months ago, he finally gave up being a mail nazi (because he thought he was receiving way to many death threats), to become a mail general. He makes sure everybody gets their mail, and very fast, too. But I'm getting off subject, seeing how this fucker doesn't matter that much in my tale, so let's get back to World War 3: Cherokee vs. German; my story, bitches!

"Hell To The No!" says the Cherokee with a scared, shocked, and mortified look on his, all at one time. 'That shit's for the English! Like that dude over there." He points to the other side of the street.

"Oh," replies the mail general. "Well, here's your Danish."

"Thanks," says the German to the mail general. "Fuck you, Cherokee! You could've told me that the Danish was with the mail general... could've saved a few hours of my life; then I wouldn't have had to come all the way over here. I'm hungry."

Wow, as random as a statement as that was, it was true; the German wouldn't eat anything but Danish so…yeah. He puts his Danish on the counter of the Cherokee's store, and takes out a lemon filled Danish, and starts to eat.

"Your diet is extremely boring and naive, German." The Cherokee's goal in life was to piss of the German at least once, a feat he had never been able to accomplish. So he decides to go with Plan X: steal a lemon filled Danish, the German's favorites, right after he gets it them in the mail. See, the German only ate Foreign Danish., so he ordered it online. 'what a coincidence," thinks the Cherokee. So he steals a lemon filled Danish.

"You can have that one only! Touch my Danish again, and I'll fucking kill you!" the German yells, giving the Cherokee a shower of spit.

"Sure thing, boss man," replies the Cherokee. Then, very deliberately, he steals another Danish, this time, a strawberry filled Danish, as well as another lemon one.

"Asshole, give me back my Danish! Oh, wait, that's a strawberry one; you can have that one, but give me back my God Damn Lemon Filled Danish!" Now, the German is extremely pissed off, and drunk, too. He had been drinking vodka all day.

"Hey," says the mail general, "look at the telie. It says 'Cherokee steals Mount Rushmore and Ol' Faithfull" What's next?"

"Shit!" yells a now pissed off Cherokee. "What the hell is up with that?" he says as he absently-mindedly steals another of the German's Lemon filled Danish. "That's my bitch-ass of a mother fuckin' cousin!"

"Wow…' says the mail general and the German in unison.

"I'm gonna go now," says the mail general with a lot of things on his mind to think about.

"Okay. See ya," says the German. "Damn You, Cherokee! Stop taking my fucking Danish!"

"Sure thing, boss man. Keep taking your Danish, got it."

"I'm going to kill you. Seriously, I am; I'll prove it." He says this last part as he walks out of Cherokee Central Bakery, the name of the Cherokee's bakery, leaving his Danish with the Cherokee on the counter."

"O... Kay… Well just see about that. Ooh, Danish! Ha ha, he can't say anything now, because he's not here."

**1 HOUR LATER **

"Aww man, the Strawberry Danish is gone, and that was my favorite. Oh well, on to the Lemon ones. That ought to piss the German of when he … gets … back… here… What the hell is that loud rumbling noise?"

"It sounds like an aircraft, boss" says one of the employees.

"Maybe."

All of a sudden, a German Fokker Triplane dives out of the sky with German in the pilot's seat. "I told you I would fuckin' kill you, bitch!" Then he starts to shoot at the Cherokee while the Cherokee is still in his bakery, and all the while singing 'It's A Long Way To Tipperary.' "Take that, you Cherokee piece-of-scum! This is Germany, not America! Adolf Hitler tells you what to do, not your fucking whore of a mother." And then, for some strange reason unknown to man, the Fokker Triplane explodes, but not before the German parachutes out, with the German falling directly toward the Cherokee.

"Whatever you say, German," replies the Cherokee, opening his shirt, revealing his bullet proof vest. "Dumbass! Don't you know a bullet-proof vest when you see an outline under a shirt?"

"That what that was? Oh, I thought it was a … I don't know what I thought it was."

"That's okay."

"Why that's? I just tried to kill you, and, by some miracle, you amazing survived."

"Because I still have some of your Danish."

"Some? Where's the rest of my Danish?"

"In my stomach."

"NOOOOO! YOU TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE, BITCH!" yells the German.

"By the way, so you remember D.?"

"That has nothing to do with current situation. And which D. are you talking about? D. from the post office, or D., the cashier, from the grocery store down the street?"

"Neither "

"Well, which D. are you talking about?"

"D.'s nuts, bitch!" yells the Cherokee, pulling out his balls.

"Put the wrinkly shit up, man."

"No! Besides, I have something else for you, too!"

"Ewwww. I said, put that… Wait… what is it?"

"My Glock, bitch!" And then the Cherokee shoot the German his parachute. Then he grabs the last Lemon Filled Danish. By this time, the German has landed right in front of Cherokee Central Bakery. "Mmmmmm, Yummy Danish."

"Guess what? You only hit my parachute when you shot at me with your Glock, and that was a bulletproof parachute, designed by yours truly. And will you stop eating my God Forsaken foreign Danish! Have you no decency? I mean, you balls are still hanging out, Cherokee!"

"Oh yeah, I forgot about that." The Cherokee then finally puts his dick away, much to his employees' appreciation."

"Hey, um, Mister Cherokee, look behind you."

Hearing the German's voice _behind_ him, he spins 180° around, and stares the German in the face." How did you get there?"

"I teleported using another one of my ingenious inventions when I landed on the ground, about 5 seconds ago."

"That doesn't explain why I couldn't find you after I looked back up from putting my dick up," the Cherokee questioned the German.

"You know how you can't see, but you can hear a person when they are teleporting?"

"Oh, yeah. I forgot about that part."

"Since when did you become a terrorist, german?"

"Since 1989, actually. Why? You never knew?"

"No."

"Oh, well, then I have a present for you, Cherokee"

"Really? What is it?"

"This. It's my first terrorist act since 2000."

"Damnit! Shit! Fuck! Every cussword there ever was in the history of history!" Upon saying the Cherokee saying his father's not-so-famous-last-words, the German empties out 159 machine gun bullets into the Cherokee's body, most of them into his forehead.

"What now, you Cherokee piece-of-shit! Ger-ma-ny! Ger-ma-ny! Ger-ma-ny! And, oh, yeah, you definitely can't forget these two: A-dolf Hit-ler! A-dolf Hit-ler! and Terrorist Rule! Terrorist So Rule!"

Now here's a strange twist to this little story of mine: the Cherokee has some Irish Brothers! Now, let get back to my story.

Then, these seven Irish dudes, who just so happen to be the Cherokee's older brothers, except for one, walk to tha bakery from the bar across the street.

When they get to the bakery, the beat the living shit out of the german. Literally, they tear him up so bad that he shit himself. But, because of the crazy world we live in, the shit grew tiny little caterpillar legs out of the corn he had eaten the night before, and walked away from the scene of the crime.

Then, when the beat-down is almost complete, the Cherokee gets up of the floor, with no visible marks on his body from the 159 machine guns bullets. "Damn pellet gun."

Realizing that his statement about the "damn pellet gun" was extremely funny, at least to him, he starts laughing really hard. He laughed so hard that a piece of the German's Danish was upchucked, and got stuck in his throat. He tried to do the Heimlich Maneuver on himself, but couldn't get it unstuck. His famous last words were as follows: "Tell the German he was SEXY!" yes, he said the german was Sexy, and he was still laughing when he said it.

The brothers and the German (Who had recovered form the beat-down because the Cherokee was laughing for so fucking long) stood in awe and shock, as the Cherokee thinks to _swallow_ the Danish. The Cherokee gets up off the floor with tears in his eyes from laughing so hard.

Then, this blond dude with a Super black cape and a red light saber comes from the bar into the bakery. "I am the Danish theft police officer. I have come to take this menace to society Cherokee away. Oh, hey guys," he says to the Irish brothers. They were the ones that reported the Cherokee; the German and the Cherokee had been fighting and arguing all day (by now, it's about sunset, East Coast Standard Time)!

"Hey, Darth Vader," yells out the oldest Irish Brother. "Did you do something to your hair?"

"Yeah, I dyed it blond. Do you like it/" replies the Darth Vader.

"Sure, it looks good on you."

"As the Cherokee is being dragged away, the German bursts into hysterical laughter again as he pulls out his green light saber. He decapitates the seven Irish brothers of the Cherokee's, and teleports to America so he can start a new life without anybody knowing who he is or what he does.

"Wait! I forgot my very last Lemon Filled Danish! Oh, by the way, it was nice seeing you again, Vader."

'It was German. Last time we talked, it was 1999."

"Yup, those good ol' days... Well, I got to be going.'

"Okay, see you another time."

So then the German grabs his Danish, and starts his teleporting sequence back to America,

THE END or not the end? The world may never know what became of the German after he teleported to America.


End file.
